


Say Hi to RELiCTA

by smolbiotic



Series: RELiCTA [1]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alien punk, Gen, Punk, Turian Punk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 04:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolbiotic/pseuds/smolbiotic
Summary: Alien punk rock? Alien punk rock! Noya is a turian with enough attitude to power a sun and when she takes the stage, she will own you and you'll love her for it. Come say hi to RELiCTA in the 776.





	Say Hi to RELiCTA

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea who this niche will appeal to, but here it is regardless! I recommend listening to some horror punk or psychobilly to really get you in the mood for Noya's shenanigans.

_ 776\. _   
  
Three numbers flashed across every busted public screen on Sahrabarik’s rank, red asshole: Omega. It started early in Noya’s day cycle, attacking every poor sap just trying to get where they needed to go, their eyes too heavy and tired to tolerate the violent assault of white light streaming through their corner of the station. Sharp, teal eyes watched as countless mine workers trudged by, placing one foot in front of the other as they lumbered closer to the eezo mine that left a metallic tang in the backs of their throats and headaches throbbing behind their eyes. Then, like a heralding spirit thrumming the anacrusis for a song of revival, that perfect number flooded through Omega carrying the beginnings of a promise. _ Her _ promise.   
  
It screamed across the dismal ambience of the station, edged with a cold thrill as the mystery behind it left room for fear to grow.

_ 776 _, it read, but who sent it running across nearly every screen on Omega?

_776 _. Was it Aria? If not, what did their cold-blooded Queen think of the message? Was it a threat?

_ 776 _: Kima’s station ID. Every soul in the district averted their gazes, fearing the message was a threat of violence. They shuffled their feet, shoulders hunched as the number pulsed brilliantly overhead. It was easier to pretend everything was normal than to worry about criminals or terrorists, so they stubbornly angled their jaws down until all they could see was the space a few feet ahead of them. So long as they didn’t look up, they wouldn’t see those three numbers shining above them, carrying Noya’s promise.

The turian shook her head and breathed a sigh through her nasal plates, pitying the mindless idiots who chose to live in fear rather than embrace the excitement of her genius prank. She adjusted the strap of the guitar case slung across her back and leaned a shoulder against the filthy window of one of Kima’s busiest tram stations, waiting for the next stage of the viral ad she and her band had planned and _ brilliantly _ executed, if she did say so herself.

While she waited she found herself grinning viciously at anyone who glanced her way, unable to contain the prideful arrogance that swelled her chest while her message of _ 776 _ shone overhead like a righteous beacon. The uncontrolled glee she turned onto passersby earned her a lot of wary side-eyes, both due to her manic behaviour and her bizarre appearance, but that just amplified her giddiness to new extremes. She was a hair’s breadth away from plucking the next sorry bastard that walked by her into a playful dance just for the hell of it, but most people gave her a wide berth.

Noya was abnormally short for a mature turian, standing at a whopping 5’1”. On top of that, a genetic disorder passed down from her father’s fucked up family left her with soft plates covered in a silvery down coating that she should have grown out of as an infant. It gleamed against her charcoal-black hide, a beacon of weird that she was fiercely proud of. Most turians with Luvena’s were ashamed to be seen, but not Noya Hepten. She _ lived _to stand out, to make a scene and to be seen. Luvena’s syndrome was rare, which meant she was about the most special little turian on all of Omega.

At least that’s what she told herself, and spirits did she ever believe it.  
  
Her down wasn’t enough, though. It was something she was born with, not a _ statement _ . So Noya wore torn plaid pants that sat low on her angled hips from the weight of countless chains, a long-sleeved fishnet top hacked off at the top to accommodate her cowl, and a beat-up leather vest covered in brass studs. It wasn’t an uncommon look in her part of town, but it certainly wasn’t something the _ turians _ in Kima wore. Add in the silver, hooped piercings that gleamed along her mandibles and her brow plates, and, well… Every Kima local knew “that punk turian,” and after RELiCTA’s first show everyone on _ Omega _ would be chanting her name.   
  
That was the goal, and Noya _ always _ got what she wanted because she fought for it like a varren scrapping over a pyjak bone. Once she got her teeth in something she wouldn’t let go unless she died. And since she didn’t plan on dying any time soon...   
  
The little punk’s mandibles flicked in a smug grin as she fished in one of the pockets of her snug pants, taloned fingers raking along the threadbare fabric. She felt the curved tip of a claw puncture something and bit back a sigh, gently tugging her prize free so as not to damage it further. After a moment of tentative coaxing, a box of _ Newports _ slid free, the cheap cardboard crumpled from the tight prison of her pants pocket.   
  
Deft fingers plucked a cigarette free before Noya balanced it on the soft, pierced plates of her mouth, eyes glued to the cracked screen that buzzed above the tram schedule. A quick glance at her omnitool revealed a message from Reedal, RELiCTA’s guitarist, backing vocalist, and coding queen.   
  
_ ‘5…’ _   
  
Noya’s mandibles flared in a gleeful smile. _ The countdown begins. _

A succession of short messages counting down the seconds followed, and the moment Noya’s omni _ pinged _ with a _ ‘1!!!!!,’ _ the screen above the tram schedule lit up with a masterfully crafted invitation to RELiCTA’S first show:

_ 776, 776, 776...Happy hour at Lipko’s Hole or get bent, fuckwads! Love, RELiCTA, your local hot alien punk rockers. _

“Hah!”  
  
The down-covered turian barked her excitement, subvocals thrumming delightedly as the message shifted. A few strangers shot her irritated looks but she just let her mouth hang open so she could waggle a long, cobalt tongue at them as rudely as she could manage, seemingly defying the laws of physics to keep her cigarette in place. No gloomy Omega tightwads could rob her of the thrill of her first show night, especially not after dear Reedal had managed to broadcast their ad across the entire fucking station. Not when she’d be on a stage (which was exactly where she was meant to be) in just twelve hours.

If she could, she’d be in Lipko’s this very moment, checking her amps and her monitors for the millionth time. The bar owner had already chased her out once, though, glaring down at her with four watery, black eyes so he could lock up and get some sleep.

That was how she wound up leaning against the window of a tram station early in her day cycle, waiting for Reedal to work her crazy salarian tech-magic. Truthfully, Noya couldn’t complain about how things worked out. It was a wild ride watching intrigue and irritation alike bloom from their viral advertising.  
  
Noya’s chest puffed up proudly, her nasal plates scrunching and pulling in the thin tendrils of smoke that rose from the cherry of her cigarette.   
  
“Lipko’s,” she sighed to herself, subvocals trilling with pleasure.

It wasn’t a bad spot for RELiCTA’s first big show. Lipko’s was a favoured watering hole for most of the mine workers in Kima, as it was hidden from view just around the corner from one of the main tram stations. It was a wide, empty space with a small stage that normally hosted strippers or karaoke nights.  
  
_ “The darkest corner in the 776,” _ the faded neon sign above the front door boasted. That sign, however, was often ignored thanks to the rough graffiti sprayed on the glass just beneath it which read, _ “Get your dick wet in Lipko’s Hole.” _ Noya grinned and the memory and let her smoke fall to the ground before stomping it out and firing off a quick message to Reedal, asking to meet her.   
  
_ ‘Sure thing, hopper! Let’s wake the sleeping giant.’ _   
  
That meant their stoic percussionist, thick-armed Pik. Poor guy wouldn’t be sleeping in like he had planned, then.   
  
Shoving herself off the grime-streaked window of the tram station, Noya fell into the steady current of Kima’s working-class goons and began to hum a cheerful, subharmonic tune. Her message ticked away on the screens overhead and she couldn’t help the growl of pleasure that rumbled within her chest as the white light reflected off her soft, silvery plates.

* * *

Nervous energy arced between Noya and her bandmates in the cramped space Lipko called a “dressing room,” leaving them all bouncing on their feet in silence while they waited for the owner’s all-clear to take the stage.  
  
Kima’s infamous “punk turian” was lovingly studying the long neck of her human instrument, a bass guitar the colour of turian blood. It was a rich shade of blue with a metallic finish that would look positively lustrous under the stage lights, a fact that the angry little separatist within her delighted in. Strumming her message with the colour of her peoples’ blood? _ Fuck yes. _ She was vibrating with excitement for the show they had planned, subvocals unrestrained as she bounced on the spot.   
  
One moony sigh towards her bass later, Noya pulled her teal eyes away from the instrument to settle on Pik, who was currently sitting in front of a mirror drawing thin lines over his face with a large, steady hand. It always amazed her how still and graceful their drummer was. Pik was the meatiest, most bulky turian she had ever laid eyes on. Turians, as a general rule, skewed more towards ropey physiques. Pik? Pik was average height, but he was thick as hell with a dour countenance that held most people at a distance.   
  
A single, down-covered mandible flicked out in a smile as Reedal (a reedy salarian with barely any muscles to her name) leaned her elbows on Pik’s shoulders and rested her chin on his speckled grey-brown fringe. He didn’t flinch, just glanced up at her with dark green eyes and trilled a greeting before going back to his paints. Reedal wasn’t someone that could be held at a distance. She was fearless, and Noya loved her for it.   
  
She was also the smartest person Noya had ever met, which she had always written off as a salarian thing. Turns out that no, Reedal was actually one-of-a-kind with her smarts and her passionate rebellion against her own culture. She had a hunger to see the galaxy and live freely, so she left Surkesh without hesitation the first opportunity she had. Reedal turned her back on her culture and traditions with nothing more than a shrug of her shoulders, something almost unheard of for salarians.   
  
That she chose to sate her appetite for adventure with RELiCTA made Noya feel all warm and fuzzy inside.   
  
Pik’s story was equally exciting. Their silent turian with the huge arms and angry green eyes was a cabal once upon a time. Palaven-born and from a rigid military family, he was doomed to a life of service from the first. His biotics were just another leash used to control him once they manifested. Eventually he snapped and stole away during a rare spot of shore leave. Pik scrubbed his speckled plates free of his Palaven markings and started working the mines of Omega until he and Noya ran into each other on a tram. After she ribbed him with a few jokes about his odd physique, he told her she looked like a human-loving psycho. She told him to suck her fuckhole and they were fast friends from that moment on.   
  
As for Noya, well...she was Taetrus-born, a freak with a genetic disorder that meant she would always stand out, which frankly suited her just fine. If people were going to gawk and stare, why not give them a show? And spirits, the show she gave was good as hell.

When her family eventually moved to Omega so her mother could join the Suns, young Noya befriended her human neighbours and learned all about Earth’s punk movement from them. It was a perfect fit for her wild, flashy attitude.

She loved the look, loved the _ attitude _ those humans conveyed with their leathers and pins and mohawks. She even attempted to form the silvery down that crowned her head into a little ‘hawk herself, but it didn’t have quite the same impact as the liberty spikes in all the human magazines. That didn’t stop her from owning her bitty baby ‘hawk, though.   
  
A rapping of meaty knuckles on the door to their changing room started Noya from her thoughts, and she immediately snapped to attention. Lipko’s knock meant that it was time for them to take the stage.   
  
“Show time, fuckers!” she announced, slinging her bass guitar into place and hopping over to Reedal and Pik.   
  
The larger turian finally answered her subharmonic trilling with his own, though it didn’t last. He didn’t like talking to her with voices the salarian couldn’t hear, not while Reedal was in the room. The polite sonuva varren.   
  
As though she knew their band’s front woman was thinking about her, Reedal smirked up at her, a glint in her jungle-green eyes, “Feel good, Noya?”   
  
“Good enough to fuck myself thinking about this later, doll. Wanna watch?” the down-covered turian quipped back, grinning so widely her tongue lolled out.

Reedal shoved Noya, who laughed hard in response before catching a glimpse of herself in Pik’s mirror. Her red facepaint was a perfect image of horror atop her charcoal hide and silvery plates: large fangs were painted over her mouth plates and she had decorated her brows and forehead with wide, creepy eyes. Once she was under the blacklights in the bar, the monster’s face she had painted on herself would glow. It was _ way _ cooler than Pik’s swirling green lines. He went for pretty, she went for badass bitch.   
  
“Let’s do this!”   
  
It was Reedal who ushered them out the door, Pik quietly spinning his drumsticks in his hands behind the pale salarian with her peach-and-periwinkle speckling. Noya pranced passed them both and hurried towards the stage, the sound of energetic voices buzzing in the din of mindless club music alighting her veins with searing pleasure. In mere moments, that crowd would be _ hers _ . She would reach out with her voice and her talons and gather her perfect, screaming fans-to-be to her chest and deliver them into a beautiful future. _ RELiCTA’s _ future. Noya’s world was about to change on the stage of Lipko’s Hole.   
  
“Fuck it,” she purred, “Let’s do this.”   
  
Without giving her friends the chance to respond Noya strutted onto the stage, a galaxy’s worth of confidence contained within her soft, tiny body as she grabbed the mic stand and glared out into the crowd with a flashing, teal gaze. The eyes she had painted over her face glared with her, and she showed her teeth to the sweaty throng while she plucked out a few deep, resonant notes from her bass.   
  
“Hello, fuckwads,” she purred, her subharmonics a sexual smoke beneath her words, “Say hi to RELiCTA.”   
  
The crowd grew still and quiet, the question on all of their minds clear as day when she locked eyes with the few faces she could see beneath the stage lights.   
  
_ Who the fuck is this? _ They were all wondering, and, _ What the fuck was that stunt these idiots pulled at the station? Who the fuck do they think they are? This is their first show! _   
  
The challenge to win this crown turned her on a little, because she knew that once her first song was done she would own them. Call it arrogance, but she knew it down to her _ marrow _ .   
  
Noya kept staring into the crowd, enthralling them with unwavering eye contact until a subvocal thrum from Pik told her the other two were in place and ready. Her talons traded lazy plucking for a more lively, melodic run and Pik tapped a rhythm once he recognized the song.   
  
Her cobalt tongue spilled from between silken mouth plates to run along the mic as Noya drew in close to the stand.   
  
“You’re gonna wanna film this.”   
  
Once she winked, the song kicked in.   
  
An homage to the alcoholic father who raised her to hate the Hierarchy, RELiCTA’s opening song was titled _ ‘I Don’t Fuck Myself at Night Thinking of the Cause.’ _ The lyrics were crude, simple, but she sung them with a loud passion that even the deaf aliens in the audience could revel in. The turians in the audience were held in her thrall as though she was weaving magic, her subharmonics achingly seductive as they purred her truth.   
  
_ “I don’t fuck myself at night thinking of the Cause, _

_ I won’t take up arms and give up my heart. _ _   
_ _ I’m gonna ride this high, yeah, ride it wild, _

_ My body like a work of art.” _   
  
Skepticism melted away into a frenzy of cheers and just as she promised, Noya rode that high. She arched her body into the bend of the mic stand like it was her lover, subvocals pooling in between the lines of her lyrics to paint the image of her sprawled and comely, waiting to be claimed. It was a plea, a ravenous cry to be taken, and the turians in the audience screamed back with a craving for her in their own subharmonics.   
  
Chancing a glance back at her band, she saw Pik and Reedal as lost in the music as she was. Her tongue lolled out with her smile once more as she charged to the end of the stage and fell to her knees, pressing her forehead to a willowy turian queen of a woman dressed in vibrant yellows who was crying out to her.   
  
Fuck. Yes.

Noya had always known she belonged to the stage, but what a thrill to finally know the stage belonged to _ her, _too.


End file.
